


Dinner

by GravityCanFly



Series: Cabin Pressure [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Domestic, Gen, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityCanFly/pseuds/GravityCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas briefly appears human, and Martin blushes a lot. Only brief appearances by Carolyn and Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd. It's first in what I hope to be a sort of series. Am working on the next part which should be up soon. There's not nearly as many quips as there are in canon and Douglas doesn't make as many clever remarks - because I'm not that clever, y'see. Maybe I use too many commas. Whatever. Enjoy it.

“Morning, Martin,” Douglas set down his coffee cup on the table and sank into a chair with a 'humph' noise. Martin looked up from his paper.

“Morning Douglas. How are you?”

Douglas made a sort of scoffing-moaning noise in his throat, “bloody beds in this place.”

Martin made an agreeable sort of noise, failing to mention that compared to his attic this hotel was almost like paradise. At least the shower ran hot and the sheets didn't have holes worn through them.

Douglas leant towards Martin and said in almost a whisper, “have you got any ibuprofen?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Martin reached into his flight bag and threw a blister pack across the table towards his colleague. Douglas took two, threw them back with a swig of coffee and passed the packet straight back to Martin. “You're welcome,” Martin said pointedly as he returned the pills to his bag.

“Gentlemen,” Carolyn announced her arrival at the table. “Ready to fly us home and embark on a blissful four days off?”

“Ah, good morning Caroyln,” Douglas brightened and bared his straight white teeth at her in something like a smile. “How are you this morning?”

“None of your business,” Carolyn sniffed in her trademark almost-haughty manner. “And your good self?”

“I'm perfect,” Douglas returned, sounding just slightly sinister.

“Glad to hear it. Oh,” she moaned, “where is that _idiot boy_?” She turned and scanned the room for her son, who was nowhere to be seen. 

“He was asking me last night if LA really does have tinsel up all year round – he's probably gone to see if it's true,” Martin smiled.

“Oh for christ's sakes,” Carolyn moaned, pulling out her phone. “Arth _ur_ , where _are_ you?” she screeched, presumably when her son answered.

“I'm right here, Mum!” Arthur popped up at the table, grinning from ear to ear. 

Carolyn thrust her phone back into her pocket, “where have you been? The taxi will be here any minute!”

“I was talking to the bellhop, I wanted to know why they're called that. He said they don't actually hop on bells, but he didn't know if-”

“Yes, alright,” Carolyn snapped. “That's an absolutely fantastic story I'm sure but let's save it for the flight, yes?”

“Oh, righto.”

“Come on, come on! Giddy-up!” Carolyn waved her arms at her staff, as if adding a little drama to the situation would hasten things.

“ _Giddy-up_ we shall,” Douglas muttered dryly.

Douglas and Martin drained their cups and stood as Carolyn dragged Arthur off towards the taxi rank. Douglas leant down to pick up his flight bag and let out a hiss as he pulled the weight up towards his body. Martin glanced at him, unsure whether to be concerned, slung his own flight bag on his shoulder and followed his crew out of the hotel.

-

“Post take off checks complete.”

“Jolly good, Captain,” Douglas's drawl came flatly from the first officer's seat. 

Martin shifted in his seat, examining his instrument panels. Douglas watched him idly out of the corner of his eye as the young captain made a show of being fascinated by every dial and figure. Soon, Martin had to concede to himself that there wasn't a lot to interest him and threw a glance at his first officer. “Want to do a game or something, Douglas?”

“Oh not now, Martin,” Douglas adopted a tone one might use when dealing with an over-eager child. Martin fell silent and occupied himself again with examining his instruments. Douglas stretched his legs out in front of him and sighed. 

Some minutes passed, and Martin spoke again, “We could place a bet? Irish or English at Shanwick?”

“Martin, it's hours until we get to Shanwick.” Douglas gave an irritated sigh, shifting his position again. “Okay, here's a game.”

Martin nodded, looking over at his weary colleague. “But don't make it one you've already got loads of answers for this time.”

“You know I don't do that, you're just slow. This isn't that kind of game. Let's play _who can keep from annoying Douglas Richardson for longest_.”

“Oh, oh.” Martin faltered. He sat back in his seat, casting sidelong glances at Douglas. After a few moments, which felt like longer, he sniped, “I guess I've already lost that one just by being alive though, haven't I?”

“You said it, Captain,” Douglas muttered, pulling himself upright in his seat and tucking his feet neatly beneath him.

Uncomfortable silence continued for several more minutes, until Arthur appeared in the flight deck like an excitable puppy breaking out of a kennel.

“Hello chaps! Isn't it lovely to have G-ERTI all to ourselves!”

“Er, yes, I suppose,” Martin glanced over at Douglas who was still resolutely staring through the windshield. “Don't have to worry about Carolyn causing a riot.” He laughed.

“Or the good steward killing a passenger,” Douglas muttered. He paused. “Or indeed the captain killing a cat.”

“Neither of those things were our fault!” Arthur objected loudly. “Anyway, the cat _didn't_ die, did it?”

“Ignore him, Arthur,” Martin advised, “He's just being grumpy.” Martin glared across at Douglas, who shrugged dissolutely. 

“Oh,” Arthur looked at his feet. “Mum's the same, I just came up here to talk to you chaps.”

“Of course. What have you got planned for your days off?”

“Well,” Arthur's eyes lit up as he began talking excitedly, “Herc's coming to stay so we're going to take Snoopadoop on walks – where there aren't any sheep – and he's going to teach me to cook vegetarian and...” Arthur trailed off. “Oh,” he said, “I don't think I was meant to tell you about Herc.”

Martin smiled. “That's okay Arthur, we won't let on. Will we, Douglas?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Douglas purred. “Arthur, if you're going to be in here, do you think you could be in here with coffee?” 

“Oh, sure, Douglas, I'll be back in a mo',” Arthur ducked out of the flight deck. 

Douglas ran a hand through his dappled grey hair, and kicked his legs out in front of him again with a sigh that was so aggressive it was almost a growl.

“What's the matter with you?” Martin asked, his brow furrowed as he looked at his frustrating fidgeting first officer.

“I'm fifty-eight, Martin,” Douglas snapped. His fingers were curled tightly round the arm of his chair, his knuckles white. Martin took this in, and the working muscle in Douglas's jaw, and his slightly pale complexion. 

“Ibuprofen didn't do the trick?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.

“Not even close,” Douglas muttered bitterly. 

“Coffee!” Arthur sang, as he stepped back into the flight deck. Douglas cast Martin a stern look, and Martin nodded just slightly. 

-

“See you in a few days then, Martin,” Douglas stopped at his Lexus and fiddled through his pockets to find his car keys.

“Uh, ah,” Martin hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you sure you should drive?”

Douglas fixed Martin with a cold stare. “I have been driving for forty years.”

“Uh, yes,” Martin cleared his throat, “but your – er – your reaction times aren't good, I noticed.” He paused, “Not that I was – uh – noticing,” he added. He frowned slightly and looked at his shoes.

“Oh for god's sake, Martin.” 

“Just let me drive you home, please? I'll pick you up in the morning to collect your car.” Martin looked at Douglas imploringly, picking at the fingers on his left hand with his right. 

“Fine, fine.” Douglas shoved his keys back into his pocket and turned to follow his embarrassed-looking captain.

-

Douglas leant his arm on the door of the old Ford Transit, watching the country roads passing him by. Martin sat awkwardly beside him, glancing over occasionally and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Douglas closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. 

“Here we are, then,” Martin stopped outside Douglas's low house, baby grand piano just visible through the large front window. 

Douglas opened his eyes and looked round, slightly bemused. “Oh, okay. Thanks Martin. I'll see you in the morning I suppose.” Before Martin could respond, Douglas had climbed out of the van and slammed the door closed. 

Douglas strolled over to his front door, listening for the sound of the van's engine turning over. He heard Martin put the van in gear and pull off as he closed his front door. Just like I was taught to do when giving women lifts home, he thought. Always make sure they get inside safely before you leave. He threw his flight bag down and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully on the mahogany coat stand. He kicked his shoes off and climbed the stairs slowly in his socks, feeling all the joints from his waist down protesting the movement. He turned on the hot tap and let the bath fill up whilst he removed his clothes. For a moment, he felt wistful, thinking that were Helena here she would bring him a cup of tea and the day's paper. He dismissed the thought and set about separating his clothes carefully into piles for washing. He turned to climb into the bath, stopping to check that the water wasn't too hot. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he gripped the edge of the tub and lifted his stiff legs inside. He turned his head away, trying not to let vain thoughts of what used to be into his mind. 

Douglas lay in the bath – the product of a lengthy search to find a tub long enough to accommodate his 6 foot 3 height – and basked in the heat of the water soaking away his pain. Slowly, he became more comfortable and his mind began to clear. He found himself thinking about the day, and cringed inwardly at the thought of Martin feeling the need to take care of him. A few hours into the flight, still well the wrong side of the Atlantic, Martin had asked him to look at the flight charts. He had sat and looked at them, trying to make sense of the intersecting lines. 

“Douglas?” Martin had prompted, and Douglas just had to turn to him and admit that he couldn't make sense of the charts, that he didn't know what it meant. Martin didn't say anything, he just looked at Douglas with these frightened eyes, whilst Douglas stuttered out an apology, something about not having slept well, and could he please, please not say anything to Carolyn. Martin agreed, but for the rest of the flight asked him questions every few minutes, like he was trying to stop someone with a concussion losing consciousness. Where did you have your first wedding? What did your father do for a living? What's your favourite book? The flight went smoothly after that. Martin kept Arthur out of the flight deck as much as possible, nagged Douglas to drink often, and landed G-ERTI when they finally arrived in Fitton. 

Douglas shuddered slightly at the memory, both embarrassed by having shown weakness in front of Martin, and scared for what this might mean for his flying career. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. It was the pain and lack of sleep clouding his mind. It was just that hotel, those beds, this day. He made a mental note to always have some co-codamol in his flight bag. This would _not_ be happening again.

-

“Thanks, Martin,” Douglas glanced across at Martin's hand resting on the steering wheel of the Transit van. “For everything... Rough day.”

“That's okay,” Martin replied, relieved and somewhat surprised that Douglas had addressed the previous day without anger or denial. “Feeling better?”

“Good as new.” Douglas confirmed.

“Good, good,” Martin pulled into the airfield, stopping just beside Douglas's car. 

“What are you up to today, Martin?” 

“Ah, not a lot. Probably just read and...” Martin hesitated, “catch up on paperwork.”

“I was going to go into Fitton. I'll take you for lunch?”

“Uh, well, I'd like to, but, uh, I can't, uh...” Martin stammered, fiddling with the frayed cuffs of his sweatshirt.

“My treat,” Douglas added, guessing at what was making his young colleague nervous, “to say thank you.”

“Oh,” Martin brightened, surprised. He looked at Douglas. “Sure, thanks,” he said, with a smile.

-

Martin scuffed his toe against the ground, hands thrust in his pockets as Douglas purchased two venison steaks from a chap who assured him the deer they came from had been shot no more than two miles away. 

“Now, there's a fellow who's usually here somewhere who does really good cheeses,” Douglas turned back to Martin, pocketing his change and looking round the assembled stalls. “Aha!” Douglas raised a hand to point at a stall on the opposite side of Fitton's sandstone town square and marched off in the direction of the really good cheese stall. Martin kept his head down and followed.

Three hundred grams of west country cheddar added to his haul, Douglas turned to Martin. “Anything you want to look at?”

Martin shuffled his feet. “This – ah – isn't really my thing, Douglas.” 

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to drag you all over the sprawling miles of the Fitton monthly farmer's market.” 

“No, no, it's just...” Martin hesitated, picking at the loose strands on his cuffs again. He leant in towards Douglas and hissed: “I feel like everyone looking at me can _see_ that I can't afford anything here.”

Douglas let out a barking laugh. “Oh really, Martin. No one's looking at you, no one cares.”

Martin looked down at his feet, his expression and short stature making him look every inch the disgruntled teenager. Only the bald spot on the crown of his head gave away his age. Douglas sighed, “Would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night?”

Martin looked up at him almost in shock. “What?”

“Come and help me eat this,” Douglas lifted the carrier bag of food he had bought, “It's boring cooking just for myself.” He shrugged, and added: “Since Helena left...”

“Yeah, okay, uh, yeah,” Martin blushed.

-

“Ah, come in, Martin,” Douglas stepped aside and let his guest into the hallway. Martin stepped inside, clutching the bottle he had brought in front of him with both hands.

“I – uh – wasn't sure what to bring so,” Martin spoke as he tried to kick off his shoes without using his hands or falling over, “so I brought some – uh – elderflower something.” He held out the bottle to Douglas who took it with a smile.

“Thanks, come on through.” Douglas strolled down the long carpeted corridor and into the kitchen. Douglas turned to the range cooker and lit the gas under the griddle. 

“Anything I can do to help?” Martin hovered awkwardly in the doorway. 

“Everything's under control. Why don't you grab a couple of glasses and pour us some elderflower thingy?”

Martin obliged, searching through the cupboards until he came across some fine-looking wine glasses. He was surprised to find an almost-full wine rack beyond the kitchen units. Douglas hovered a hand over the griddle until it was hot, and slapped the two seasoned venison steaks onto it. He delighted in the sizzle they made. Martin leant against the counter beside him and watched him work. Douglas worked quickly, draining and mashing the potatoes – and celeriac, he informed Martin – in the time it took for the steaks to cook perfectly. Somehow he produced two plates of food without Martin being able to tell him quite how he had done it. 

As Martin sat, Douglas approached the wine rack and selected a bottle. “Can I interest you in a glass of wine?” 

“Uh...” Martin stammered, completely at a loss. 

“The meal isn't really complete without a good burgundy.” Douglas insisted, and peered at the label. “This is an excellent example.”

“But Douglas,” Martin looked at his colleague, then his plate, his hands, and his colleague again, “You don't drink.”

“I'm not going to have any. It would be delicious, but I suspect not worth it,” Douglas chuckled. “Just for you. It really does complement the meal perfectly.”

“Ah, but, I'd – uh – only have one glass. It hardly seems worth opening a bottle.”

“What am I saving it for? I can't drink it!”

Martin faltered. “Okay, I'll have a glass. Thank you.”

Douglas pulled a glass from the cupboard and retrieved the corkscrew from a nearby shelf. He expertly removed the cork and poured the deep red liquid. Martin accepted the glass and took a sip.

“What do you think?” Douglas asked as he sat down to his own meal.

“Ah, yes, it's very nice,” Martin said, unsure of what exactly he was meant to say. The wine was pleasant, certainly, but he knew little about wine. He pretty much knew enough to say, “Yes, I'll drink that,” or “No thank you, not quite my thing”. Douglas watched him take a few mouthfuls before turning his attention to his food.

Martin ate, feeling slightly uncomfortable drinking in front of – he assumed – a former alcoholic. He felt more uncomfortable as it occurred to him that Douglas was trying to enjoy the wine via himself as a proxy. This discomfort was forgotten, however, when he tasted the food.

“Oh my god, Douglas.”

Douglas grinned, not bothering to hide his smugness from his expression. 

“How did you get so good at this? I mean, I know you're good at everything, but _this_.” Martin closed his eyes in pleasure. Douglas chuckled, digging into his own food. “God, no wonder you had three wives,” Martin murmured.

“Apparently not enough to make them stay.”

“Oh god, sorry.” Martin looked up from his food. “I didn't mean to...”

Douglas dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. “No, it's fine. Who needs women, eh?”

“Don't let Carolyn hear you say that.”

-

“How long is it since Helena left you?” 

“Who says _she_ left _me_?” 

“Oh. I just assumed... Did she?”

“Yes.” Douglas admitted with a laugh. “Three years.”

“And you've been alone here since? There's been no one else?”

“Well, there have been various people... Why this interest in my love life?”

Martin shrugged. “Just... Does it get lonely in this big house by yourself?”

“Not really. I quite like it. I am fairly self-sufficient, you know, Martin.”

“Yes. It just seems... I don't know, I've never lived alone.”

“Neither had I, until Julia left me.” Douglas sighed, looking into his glass. “It is strange, at first. You get used to it.”

“What did your parents say when Helena left?”

“Not very much. They're both dead.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, no, they've been dead for years. How would they feel about my three failed marriages? Oh I don't know. I probably couldn't be more of a disappointment.”

“How could you be a disappointment?” Martin exclaimed. “You're a pilot. You have a daughter. You're...”

“Yes?” Douglas prompted. “That's it, isn't it. I have a daughter - who lives in Cumbria of all places – and a job.”

“Oh, well. Maybe it's not so bad they're dead then.”

Douglas looked over at Martin, slightly dumbstruck. Then he laughed.

-

“Thanks for having me over, Douglas,” Martin reached out a hand and Douglas shook it.

“It was my pleasure. We should do it again sometime.” 

“Yeah, absolutely. Maybe after the Barcelona trip? I think we've got some time...”

“We'll figure it out.” Douglas opened the door for his guest and saw him out.

“Bye then.” Martin said, turning back to face his host.

“Goodbye.” 

Martin walked away and Douglas closed the door with a smile.


End file.
